Saturday, March 25, 2017

Confession of a Carpool Captive by Dawn L. Chiletz

My name is Liz Foley. I love my accounting job because I’d rather deal with numbers than talk to people.

My best traits:
I have (RBF) Resting Bitch Face.
I give snarky come-backs.
I have no friends.

My worst traits:
I speak in run-on sentences when I get nervous.
I’m attracted to assholes.
I’m broke.

Enter Finnigan Walsh – the new guy at work.

His best traits:
He’s kind of hot, I suppose.
He has a working car.
He sings to me and brings me coffee.
Nothing ever gets to him, even when I add more people to our carpool.

His worst traits:
See above

I don’t like him. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
After all, it’s not about how fast you get there. It’s the journey. Right?
Damn this carpool.

You’d better buckle up.

The blinding beams of flashing lights make me quickly refocus my attention. I stretch my neck in an attempt to see five cars ahead. We’re moving at a snail’s pace as usual and I’m certain I’ll get an eye-full of whatever shenanigans are going on today once I get closer. I’m not afraid to admit that I take great pleasure in other people’s driving woes. It’s like watching bad porn; you can’t look away because your eyes are glued open in horror and you’re secretly afraid of missing something. Watching people get pulled over is my one pleasure on this long-ass drive every day. There’s usually at least one good scene a day.

As I inch closer, I can’t help but speculate what happened this time. Once, I swear I saw ten people climb out of a Ford Focus. The only thing that would have made watching them all fall out over each other even more hysterical would have been if they were dressed as clowns.

The officer walks around the side of the shiny, expensive-looking, black SUV just as I inch closer. He curls his finger and the driver steps out. I can only see the back of his head, but he’s wearing a tailored suit and he’s tall, slender, and sculpted. The officer motions to his passenger before rubbing his hand over his face. The driver leans back into the car, I suppose to say something to her. She’s wearing what seems to be a scarf over her head and is completely immobile. I wonder if it’s an old woman. Maybe she’s in shock. What did he do to get pulled over? My mind works overtime trying to decipher his faux pas.

I glance over at the blue notebook on my passenger seat. I love inventing stories. It’s my favorite pastime while I drive. Actually, in general. As I pass people on my commute, I try to decide who they are, where they are going, and what their story is. Maybe someday I’ll get the courage to write a book. But for now, I just keep a notebook of all my favorite highway adventures and journal anything interesting in my day.

The man seems to be tugging on the woman’s arm.

I gasp loudly. He literally pulls her out the driver’s side door as I arrive at his bumper. After my initial shock passes, I almost piss myself laughing. His passenger is a woman, but she’s full of hot air. Her dress blows open in the breeze and I see her perky plastic boobs. What kind of man has a blow-up doll? Maybe he takes her everywhere in case he needs to get off. I picture him curled up next to her at night, stroking her hair.

He positions her next to him as if she’s standing and places his arm around her. I’m laughing so hard, I feel tears in my eyes. This is going to be the beginning of a great story, I can feel it.

Dawn L. Chiletz is the author of The Contest, Waiting to Lose, Enough, Can’t You See, The Fabulist and Confessions of a Carpool Captive.

“Sarcasm and humor are my favorite tools. I write whatever I’m feeling. Sometimes that means a romance, a mystery, a thriller, or a tear-jerker. I like giving everything a little twist and I try to stay original. I hope people like not knowing what to expect from me. I never know what I’ll write next either.”

Dawn currently resides in Illinois with her husband, two boys, and three dogs. When she’s not binge writing or reading, you’ll most likely find her on Facebook or playing taxi driver to her kids.

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